


John and Sherlock's Infinite One-Night Stand

by eveningsoother (WhichWolfWins)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Inspired by Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist, John Plays Rugby, M/M, Seven Minutes In Heaven, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 19:45:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2633945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhichWolfWins/pseuds/eveningsoother
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1 night, 2 boys, 3 secrets, 4 crimes, 5 kisses, and maybe even a few minutes of sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John and Sherlock's Infinite One-Night Stand

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second fic for The Writer's Club. The prompt was teenlock - my specialty!
> 
> Inspired by Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist.

The music pulsed through the house like the blood through the veins of the drunken teens writhing in it, causing the pictures on the walls to tremble and the dog next door to bark anxiously, though John could only hear one of these things as he leaned against the wall and tried to pretend he wasn’t noticing, or upset about, his sister currently making out with his ex-girlfriend barely a few feet away from him.

He was just thinking about pushing off the wall and making a break for the door when a blue plastic cup was shoved into his hand. He turned and was greeted by his friend Bill with a sympathetic smile and a harder-than-he-probably-thought thump to the back from one of Bill’s large, strong hands. The twinkle in Bill’s brown eyes gave away his current state of inebriation. 

“Come on, mate. I have the perfect thing to cheer you up,” Bill said. He gestured with his head for John to follow and started off into the crowd, parting the grinding bodies with his broad frame. John spared his sister and Clara a glance before bringing his cup to his lips and taking a long pull of the cheap booze. He wiped at his damp mouth with the back of his hand and took off after his friend, accepting any excuse to get away. 

There was a separate crowd standing around an open closet door, most of them holding beers in loose grips and whispering to their friends. In the center stood Sebastian Wilkes with his usual smarmy grin, looking particularly amused with a jester hat in his hands. “Watson, Murray, nice of you to join us! Here’re your numbers,” Sebastian said, and handed John the number 22 on a torn piece of paper. 

John glanced around the circle as he settled inside the ring and spotted a familiar face in Mary Morstan, who smiled as her friend noticed John looking and whispered suggestive things in her ear. John gave her a smile in return, thinking maybe, just maybe, things were starting to look up. 

In the center of the circle, Sebastian started shaking the hat roughly, grinning as he looked around at his next victims. With a final laugh, he shoved his hand in to fish out a number. “First up,” he called, swirling his hand around in the myriad of paper numbers until he finally plucked one out with great drama and shouted, “5!” 

John glanced up and noticed Sally Donovan, a mocha-skinned girl with kinky hair and a penchant for eye-rolling, looking suddenly very hopeful as she looked out of the corner of her eye at a dark haired boy who John knew to be Philip Anderson. 

Sebastian whipped the next number out with a flourish. “16!” 

By John’s side, Greg Lestrade, one of his fellow rugby mates, made a grunt and he and Sally Donovan made eye contact across the circle, each of them looking vaguely horrified. 

“Oh, nope, nope,” Wilkes said, shaking his head. “Even I know that’s just wrong.” 

Sally and Greg, as well as most of the rest of the circle, sighed with relief and the two returned to their places. 

Wilkes looked around the circle as he shook the bag rather viciously. “22!” he called, holding up the piece of paper with John’s number written on it in bold. John looked up, his heart skipping hopefully as he saw Mary smile coyly his way. 

“Looks like you’re the lucky boy, Watson!” Sebastian said, noticing his reaction. His eyes glinted with amusement as he looked from John to the corner by the speakers. “Freak, ready to finally get your first kiss?” 

John’s eyes darted from Sebastian to the teen in the corner and his eyebrows furrowed when he saw a head of curly dark hair tilt up to reveal the thin, pale-skinned boy seated in the small space. He wore a black hoodie, black jeans, and black shoes; tucked away in the darkened corner, he was practically invisible. Now, however, he was anything but. 

John glanced around at the group of people around him. All were looking at Sherlock, some of them gawking, some glaring, and some giggling into their hands. Bill was among the laughing group while Greg seemed to be the only one in the area wearing a neutral expression. Even John was staring, though for different reasons that the others might expect. 

“My pleasure,” Sherlock said, standing up to his full height - at least a head taller than John. The teen quickly breezed through the crowd to the open closet, not even sparing John a glance. As soon as he got to the door, though, he turned around at looked John’s way. “Come along, Watson. I haven’t got all night.” 

“Pick up your jaw, mate,” Bill whispered, and with a clap of his amazingly large hand to John’s back, he was being propelled forward, until suddenly he heard the click of a door, the flick of a light switch, and he found himself standing face to face with the teen clad in all black. 

“Give me your hands,” Sherlock said the moment the room was illuminated. 

John’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. “Excuse me?” 

“Shh,” Sherlock chastised, tilting his head toward the door with wide eyes, as if to say, ‘they mustn’t hear what’s happening’. “I said give me your hands.” 

“What? What for?” 

“Oh, bloody-” 

Without another word, Sherlock was all over John, causing the shorter teen to veer back into the wall with a shout. “What are you doing!?” he shouted, much to the amusement of the teens outside the door who laughed and catcalled. 

“You don’t want to kiss me and I most certainly don’t want to kiss you,” Sherlock whispered loudly as he attempted to maneuver his thin body onto John’s shoulders, “so what’s the point of us both wasting our time? This game was either invented with someone who wanted an excuse to kiss their crush or someone who took pleasure in torturing others by making them kiss people they didn’t want to.” Sherlock’s heel dug into John’s sore shoulder and, though it hurt, it also felt a bit like a deep tissue massage and he nearly moaned because of how surprisingly nice it felt; their new rugby coach was working them into the ground. 

Sherlock paused and glanced down at John as the soft sound he had made hovered in the silence. “Either way,” Sherlock went on, “that’s 7 minutes of my life I can never get back. So, I’m getting out of here. Now. Hold. Still.” 

With a final burst of pressure against his shoulders, definitely more painful than before, Sherlock shoved the cover in the attic crawlspace out of the way and pulled himself up into the darkness. John gaped up at the teens shoes as they slithered up into the passageway and, without another thought, he whisper-shouted up to him, “take me with you.” 

There was a moment of silence where John thought the other teen had gone away and he cursed himself for both speaking allowed and not speaking sooner, but then a head of dark curls appeared through the opening and the escapist frowned down at him. “What did you say?” 

“I said ‘take me with you’.” 

“I heard you,” Sherlock said, sounding annoyed as he peered down with his hair spiralling down like silky tentacles. “I meant why?” 

“Any minute now, that door’s going to open,” John deflected. He reached up toward the ceiling crawl space, staring back at the astonished teen looking down at him for the span of a few thunderous heartbeats before two thin hands descended from the ceiling and took hold of John’s wrists. 

He grunted as he struggled to get up, his feet barely managing to gain purchase on the slippery wall. Sherlock, with his much thinner arms and awkward position, wasn’t much of a help, but his longer fingers were like a vice as they cinched to John’s wrists, so John held on and eventually managed to get a foot on the top shelf of the closet. From there he was able to pull himself up more comfortably. 

Once he was inside the pitch black attic, which had an almost-overwhelming smell of mothballs and old books, he found himself shoulder to shoulder with the black sheep of the party. 

“Thanks,” John grinned, breathless. 

Sherlock offered John a hand and pulled him to his feet. “No problem,” he answered, before whirling around and heading off into the dark. 

“Wait, hold up,” John said, stumbling after him. His vision became quickly impaired in the darkness and he bumped into something almost immediately. He watched in stunned disbelief as a vase arced through the air and headed straight for the hardwood floor. It hit the ground with a loud shatter and John barely had a moment to curse before he was being yanked after the younger teen by the sleeve of his shirt. 

It was too dark to see, so John let himself be pulled along as Sherlock somehow navigated the maze in the pitch black attic until John noticed light up ahead slanting in through a square grate and Sherlock released him to unscrew it from the wall. 

“Here,” Sherlock said, offering John his clasped hands. 

“I don’t think I can fit,” John said, eyeing the opening with a frown. 

“You won’t know unless you try,” Sherlock told him impatiently. He offered up his hands again and John braced himself against the wall as he stepped up and had to quickly grab onto Sherlock’s head to keep from face-planting. 

Sherlock cursed as John kneed him in the shoulder as he veered toward the opening in the wall, but he managed to stay firmly rooted as John took hold of the edge and pulled himself up with sore arms. 

There was a trellis on the other side and John prayed to god that it was strong enough to hold his weight as he clambered out the window and took hold of it. A moment later, Sherlock popped his head out and John sidled his way down to the grass, making room for Sherlock to climb down. They dropped onto the ground beside each other and the ache in John’s shoulders finally caught up with him. 

He rubbed at his sore muscles as Sherlock pulled his hood back up to cover his wild curls. 

“Baker’s or Bart’s?” 

“Huh?” John asked, pausing his lacking massage. 

“Baker’s or Bart’s? You’re clearly in rugby, most likely a senior judging by your choice of friends, many of which are rugby players from both schools. I’d say Bart’s, but you’re not celebrating like the rest of your friends, so Baker’s Academy, or is there something keeping you from enjoying yourself?” 

John’s lips had parted in surprise during Sherlock’s speech, but now he pressed them closed, both because he didn’t want to talk about it and because he wanted to see if this strange person could figure it out. 

“Ah,” Sherlock nodded. “Bart’s then. Break up? Obvious. But it’s not the break up that you’re broken up about, so what... oh!” Sherlock’s eyes twinkled. “Your ex is here. Flirting with someone else? Most likely, or you would’ve stayed, possibly tried to hook up with someone inside.” 

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “How did I do?” he asked, striking a match and lighting a cigarette between his full lips. 

“Bloody hell, that was amazing,” John breathed in disbelief. “ 

Sherlock withdrew the cigarette from his lips and eyed John curiously, something curious in his eyes. “See you around,” he said, “John.” 

A plume of smoke billowed out behind Sherlock as he turned and vanished through an opening in the copse of bushes behind him. 

“Wait,” John called and he hurried after him onto the foot-trodden path. 

He caught up to Sherlock standing on the side of the road, looking as if he were waiting for a cab. He glanced back at John as he approached and withdrew his cigarette to blow a stream of smoke off into the fresh night air. 

“Do you got any plans?” John asked, feeling more awkward than he might asking someone out on a date, and maybe even a little more desperate. 

Sherlock blinked at him a few times before turning away and looking off into the distance, his cigarette dwindling down to ashes and falling onto the pavement by his sneakered feet. 

“My ex,” John started. “You’re right, she’s in there, and she’s probably still snogging my sister.” 

Sherlock pursed his lips and glanced back at Anderson’s house, then his eyes trailed over to a shiny black car a few feet away from them and his eyes matched its sparkle. “I _could_ use your help,” he said thoughtfully. He turned back to John wearing a suspiciously bright smile. “How’s your driving?”


End file.
